


Same

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Smallville
Genre: Clone Sex, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-20
Updated: 2003-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Ian became two people, and how he becomes one again. Spoilers for Dichotic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same

Gleaming, wet, sticky with gore and fluid and bloody mucus, skin scarred in a soft-flesh way, wrinkled and red and ugly.

That's how he SHOULD look, like any newborn thing. Regardless of what the laws of nature, physics, logics and sanity would have said about the impossibility of a single person splitting into two beings. Worms can regenerate into two beings when cut in half, but a human is not a worm. They just can't do that. Not without some kind of...

But Ian didn't believe in magic. He couldn't. Not even when he saw himself, naked and unruffled and clear like a mirror image. Only alive. An identical twin.

Except he's an only child.

Some part of his brain still sane told him that he should be dead, injured, MARKED somehow by this separation. Never taking his eyes off the other, Ian bent and twisted his arms, fingers reaching out behind himself to find the point of exit, the gaping wound that would show how this creature was born out of his body. He could remember pain, such pain, and anger--he was dying, and he had been so close to getting OUT. He needed OUT...

There was no wound. He couldn't even feel the water-trickle of blood. His skin was smooth, as smooth as the other who was also feeling his own back, suspicious eyes locked on similar, suspicious eyes. Moving out of sync, their hands dropped from their backs. Ian raised one, reaching out, wanting to know.

His chest. Warm and solid and completely his own. Same freckles, only seen from a different angle, in a way he had never been able to see himself before. Living, breathing, in front of his own face. The hand that came up to rest on his own was his own hand--no. Same hand, but not his own. Same right hand on right hand digging nails into same chest.

"This can't be happening..."

"I needed to get out..."

Twin whispers, both carrying such sadness, longing, pain...wonderment. Same voice and mind, only two different thoughts.

'When this happens in movies, they always do the exact same thing.'

"This isn't like the movies," the other commented, his nails cutting little crescent marks on Ian's hand even as his own untrimmed nails ripped into his chest.

"Stop doing that."

"Stop what?" Exasperated. Angry, almost.

"Stop reading my mind." Angry too, at this imposter who can't even get the twin-thing right.

"I'm not. This is my mind."

"MY BODY." Their voices commingled, just enough out of phase to make the two words echo discordantly.

Ian released his painfully clutching fist and jerked his hand back, ripping it out of the other's grasp. He barely noted the pain as his nails ripped long gashes over the back of his hand, tapering down to bruises before the fingers finally fell away. Ian's nails were reddened--he had meant to cut them earlier, but he had gotten too busy studying--blood already drying and becoming sticky. Impulsively, he stuck one finger into his mouth, sucking on the nail as he would suck on a small paper cut.

My blood. My taste.

Ian's mind moved back to a childhood memory, a time when everything was an experiment, even life. A friend, his name unimportant, fell off his bike. There had been so much blood from such a tiny wound on his knee. Ian had tasted it, as he had often tasted his own, and could feel how it was different. The taste, though similar, was not identical. Different tastes, different people.

Same taste. Same person?

More fingers, licking away traces, finding them all tasting the same, sucking away the blood until he could taste his skin, and wondering if that, too, were the same.

The other watched, and, with panic in his own eyes, he asked, "The...same?"

Body...mind...memories...everything.

Unable to voice his own thoughts--swimming and insane and utterly IMPOSSIBLE as they were--Ian held out his hand, offering the blood. The other bent forward, taking the hand in his own, briefly inspecting the clean and gleaming fingers before darting his tongue over the blood dribbling down Ian's wrist.

Just a small taste, turned over his tongue and compared to memory and reason. The other lifted a hand to his chest to catch the little bit of escaped blood from his own small, frown-shaped wounds. The other licked up his blood, comparing it to the first. The other. His own. Warm eyes turned cold as the conclusion was reached.

The same.

Near to panic, the other bent his head and again licked the blood from Ian's skin, smacking it against his lips as if it were a fine cream or some other tasty treat. And again. And again. He showed the same panic Ian had felt--still felt--as he cleaned around the wounds, lapping at the flesh until it was orange-pink streaked, then rouged, then clean. Still he tasted, using his lips to drag softly over the skin, his entire tongue flat against Ian's hand, as though he could slurp up the taste and prove it different by will and repetition alone.

He stopped short of sucking the actual wounds. His lips dragged over the jagged edges, following them to Ian's fingers. The touch was soft, almost ticklish. He was incredibly careful to keep from causing extra pain, even in his studious explorations.

"Your skin," spoken into Ian's fingers, "tastes just like mine."

And they'd moved way beyond surreal as Ian bent close, and lifted his hand with the other's mouth still absently tasting the webby flesh between fingers. The flesh was wet and gleaming and reddened by the spilled and supped blood, the saliva of the other's mouth. Ian tasted, and he tasted his own flesh, his own spit, his own blood--unable to tell what was his and what was left by the other.

Ian hardly realized it as his lips met his lips, and his tongue touched his own. Lapping, crossing at perpendicular angles, the rasp of rough surface to rough surface where there was more spit and blood and His Own Taste.

Like kissing himself, only he was kissing another. Another who was just like him. Not a twin, not quite a clone but HIM--all of him. His--their?--mind ached with the thought; they puzzled around the impossible and improbable and insane.

It was a dream, like a dream he wouldn't want to remember in the morning. Not when kissing himself was like wiring his braces to a battery--jolting straight from his mouth down to the core of his spine, energy splintering off to make the tips of his fingers and toes tingle and his skin itch and jump beneath a static charge.

The press of their bodies together just made the static cloud around them burst into action, crackling over Ian's skin until he could feel them BOTH, feel the sensation of two bodies as well as one, of two chests meeting at once and one chest meeting another. His thoughts splintered off, jagged and aching as neurons and mental pathways tried to reconnect themselves, bring everything back together.

The sensation of another cock against his own, of his own against...another? Like masturbation, but not. It was better as the solid grind of two bodies hit just RIGHT for a blinding burst of Oh Yes and Perfection and MORE.

Ian felt an impossible need to be close, closer, to squeeze together so hard for...for...for that friction. Ian reached out blindly, meshing mouth to mouth with a painful clack of teeth. Hands wrapped around the other's back, crushing him as he was crushed. So close, they were breathing the same breath, skin so close it was the same.

And then this incredible pain that wasn't pain, this feeling of GIVE in his body, of opening and connecting and being filled and entered and breached and lain open like an autopsy, skin and blood and cock bursting as his body UN-split.

Ian's arms closed in around his chest, hugging himself hard as his knees buckled, sending him to the floor. He rolled onto his side gasping and hyperventilating from the overwhelming feel of it all. Everything doubled in his vision, like he was looking through a camera that was looking through a camera aimed in some crazy angle at an abstract painting. His thoughts were gibberish, nothing, painful as they pulled and squeezed and too much within too small a space. He was going to scream, if he could remember what a scream was. His skin moved and shifted as he hugged his chest so hard.

And then things settled. Clicked into place. Thoughts reorganized. His mind was his own.

Ian blinked, his vision clearing. He closed them, taking a sustained breath deep into his lungs until they were filled to pain. He felt outwards, not with his hands but with his mind. His body felt... Thick. Heavy. Full, like he'd just eaten a huge Thanksgiving meal, only that fullness was everywhere. His thoughts...

His thoughts were his own, but not.

Ian became aware that at one point in his recent memory, things seemed to have...shifted. Memories overlapped, like two frames of film, only taken from opposing angles. He could see himself, and he could see himself. He could see his bed behind him, and he could see his desk behind him, though the two pieces of furniture were on opposite sides of the room. And his thoughts... They were different, but the same. Like he had been given the opportunity to relive the same moment--his estimation of the situation just slightly different each time--before both experiences were tossed back together into his head.

It was...

Impossible. A dream. Too much studying. He could only pull himself in so many directions before something would give. He had a psychotic break. A moment of insanity.

Ian thought he'd feel more pain, pain all over, as he tried to stand. His hand ached when he put pressure on it, pushing himself upright. He stretched, feeling out his body to check for other injuries. He felt a sting on his chest, a short burst of pain when he moved a certain way.

Looking down, he saw five marks on his chest. Left side. Like someone had taken their right hand and DUG their fingers into his chest. The nails of his right hand were not only slightly bloody, but had bits of flesh, as though he had been the one who raked his fingers over the back of his hand.

His right hand. His right hand's nails. It was impossible for him to do that injury to himself. Impossible.

Ian turned his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was ashy, his eyes dark circles surrounded by bruises. His stomach and thighs were spotted with semen.

He carefully walked over to his bed, falling on the mattress before he could fall on the floor again. He swallowed hard, his mind replaying the doubled memories, endlessly trying to make sense of the strangeness in his head, like tonguing a canker inside his cheek. Worrying at the wrongness until he could figure out how to make it right.

Somehow...somehow he had...cloned himself. Not just a twin, but himself. With the same memories and thoughts and body as he had, only diverging where they had split. And then he had

/kissed...groped...came.../

made himself re-integrate the clone.

Panic left. His mind eased into something more familiar: that comforting itch of curiosity and the overwhelming need to resolve a difficult puzzle.

He needed to figure out how to do it again. Learn what caused it, what made it stop. How far he could take it.

Ian had always wanted a brother.

 

THE END


End file.
